


A Charmed Life

by Cloudtrader



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Hockey Gods, M/M, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 09:31:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8885707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cloudtrader/pseuds/Cloudtrader
Summary: There was something... not quite right, though.  He knew the bitter tang of the Leafs magic was slowly fading from his aura, like trails of oily residue being washed away as more Toronto fans put him out of their thoughts and more Pittsburgh fans learned about him, but there was something... something left over.  He still had bits of Boston seasoned into him, of course, but the remnants of Toronto felt like a permanent frog in the back of his throat, like saliva burning under his tongue.  It was kinda weird, but he figured it was just a Canadian hockey magic thing.
“It's not a Canadian hockey magic thing, Phil!” Sid said exasperatedly.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SomebodyOwens](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomebodyOwens/gifts).



 

 

“ _ **I told him to get some blood on it – that would be awesome!** ” - Red Wings fan Teri Rodriquez after she loaned her replica Holmstrom sweater to Tomas Holmstrom when his jersey went missing just before an intrasquad game._

 

 

Canadian teams were more magical than American teams. That's just how it was in the NHL – everyone knew that. Magic was generated with belief and passion and fervor (and ritual and blood, but hockey always had those things) and Canadians as a whole just had more of all of that for their teams. American sports fans spent most of their magical energies rooting for football and baseball and basketball. Sure, the U.S. had more hockey teams in the NHL than Canada did, but it didn't have hockey woven into the fabric of everyday life like Canadians did, infiltrating their homes on the voices of Bob Cole and Don Cherry for generations. Baseball was the old, foundational and traditional sport in the U.S., and football and basketball were the sports of blood and passion. Thus, Canadian hockey teams were more magical... or more cursed.

Phil had been born into a hockey (OK, and football) family in a hockey town. He'd played for his country and his college and for Boston. None of that had prepared him for the Leafs. Hockey fans had belief and passion and fervor – but Leafs fans? They had fanaticism. Oh, not the city-burning fanaticism of the Canucks, or the francophone pride in success of the Canadiens, no. It was the fanaticism of the old soldier remembering his glory days, melted into the Canadian patriotism of the shared symbol on flag and jersey, flavored with a touch of the hopeful-underdog-comeback-story, and soured by decades of disappointment, cooked under unending media scrutiny and marinated in the most populous city in Canada.

The GTA – the center of the hockey universe – loved and hated its team and nothing is as magical as love and loathing twined together in a skein of emotional energy knitting the players into the history of the Toronto Maple Leafs.

Phil hated the taste of Leafs magic; at least he did everywhere but the ice. It burned with the weight of expectations and constantly watching eyes. It threaded through is body, inconsistent. The highs were so, so high (the cheers at Air Canada Center after he scored a goal and everyone knew they'd win, the hockey mojo singing through his veins) but the lows were so very, very low (anger and hatred and boos from their own fans, even from hundreds of miles away as a 4-1 lead in game 7 is erased and they lose, they LOSE, so the power is twisted like baby spiders hatching from his sweat drops and crawling into his mouth and eyes, biting all the way down into his gut).

He remembered watching the Leafs as a kid. Phil had a vague awareness of their early 90's successes, but it was their late 90's/early 2000's cup runs that he'd watched. He hadn't been a fan, though, hadn't been attached to the team magic that way (the Kings or the Rangers were his teams growing up, mostly because of Wayne Gretzky, with a little bit of the Thrashers thrown in because Ilya Kovalchuk was just so good). His own hockey shrines had been small, not like the rooms he's seen some fans set up with tons of merchandise and paraphernalia (the Leafs fans weren't even the worst about that – Steve Dangle's blue room of obsession not withstanding – he's seen 24CH, alright, Habs fans were just freaky). He'd had a few pucks and a few jerseys, some autographs – the usual stuff. He usually didn't even remember to light candles and he almost never pricked his fingers to sacrifice a few drops of blood for the team he was rooting for when he watched a game, not like most fans did.

He'd never really watched the Penguins growing up. He didn't even remember their first two cups, and growing up it had been a slow decline. He'd first cheered for Jaromir Jagr when he'd signed with the Caps (and been disappointed, of course). He'd see Mario Lemieux play, but not at the height of his powers. His personal magic had never really touched any Pittsburgh sports except in dispassionate rivalry (he knew this wasn't the case for his family, his mom especially was fervent in her hatred of whomever was playing against her kids, and he knew that she, at least, fueled curses with blood and her own profanity-filled screams whenever she watched a game, especially a game against Sidney Crosby).

The trade away from Toronto hadn't exactly been a shock. He was most definitely not happy about it, but he'd known it was coming, unlike the first one, and Pittsburgh had been on his list. He'd made a home in Toronto, and friends, a life outside of hockey in a vibrant metropolis that resonated with thousands of flavors of magic from all around the globe. Pittsburgh was different. Not bad, but definitely not Toronto, the scent of sports magic more diffuse and gentle when a game wasn't on, flavored with pepper and saffron. He liked it.

There was something... not quite right, though. He knew the bitter tang of the Leafs magic was slowly fading from his aura, like trails of oily residue being washed away as more Toronto fans put him out of their thoughts and more Pittsburgh fans learned about him, but there was something... something left over. He still had bits of Boston seasoned into him, of course, but the remnants of Toronto felt like a permanent frog in the back of his throat, like saliva burning under his tongue. It was kinda weird, but he figured it was just a Canadian hockey magic thing.

“It's not a Canadian hockey magic thing, Phil!” Sid said exasperatedly.

“How do you know? National team magic is different than League magic, and the Penguins – even the Bruins, and they were Original Six, too – are just _different_ than Leafs magic is. It's gotta be a Canadian magic thing.”

Sid just looked at him. “Can't you see the, well, the muddiness of the magic around you? Like a creeping brown fungus or something.”

Phil flushed and felt his stomach drop at the same time. Most people saw the energy of belief that everyone called magic, and almost every hockey player he'd ever talked to has had a sight meta. “Um, my meta is taste and smell,” he said, embarrassed.

“OK,” Sid said, and Phil just knew that his new captain thought he was a weirdo, but would never say it because he was too Canadian-polite, and probably also because Sid was something of a weirdo himself. “Beau's meta is touch, you know, so it could be worse. Anyway, can't you taste the sickness in your aura or whatever?”

Phil hesitated a moment and Sid pounced on it. “Come with me, we have a great witch doctor on staff, she's helped us all a lot.” Sid turned to leave the dressing room with the supreme confidence that nearly a decade as an NHL captain gave him that Phil would follow, and it somehow worked on Phil. So, he might have a bit of a hockey crush on his Captain, no big deal. “Melissa is great, you'll see, she'll figure out what's going on with that Leafs mess hooked into you.”

“Uhh, fine.” Phil followed his Captain, slightly hunched over. He'd met so many new people lately, teammates and media and coaches and trainers and equipment guys, he was pretty much at his comfort limit for telling new people about himself. He didn't really see much of a choice, though.

“So, Bennett really feels magic touching him? That's, uh, kinda rare, eh?”

Sid flashed him a smile – definitely a hockey crush – as they walked through the halls of UPMC. “Yeah, it's different. He blames his meta for his injury history, too – claims that when he trips over nothing it's because the magic is pushing him or tickling him or something.”

“What,” Phil said flatly.

Sid laughed. “Yeah, they grow them strange out in California.”

“I heard Nova Scotia was a the place for growing weird hockey players, bud.”

Sid laughed again and slapped him on the back, just as they came to the doctor's offices. “Sure, sure. In you go, Phil.”

With a sigh, in he went.

 

 

“ _ **His face is so calm. He shows no sign of stress or anything. It's as if he's saying, 'No problem. Relax. I'm just going to beat you now. It's not going to hurt a bit.'** ” - Flyers goalie Dominic Roussel on Mario Lemieux._

 

 

There was an undeniable aura of power around Mario Lemieux. The way he stood and the ingrained half-smile that a life time of being in the spotlight had gifted him with made Phil feel ungainly and off balance. The man wasn't smiling at the moment, though.

“You're telling me that Toronto PUT A CURSE ON US!?”

“Um, well, not a curse exactly, but, um,” Phil cast a desperate glance to his C, who was much more used to dealing with angry hockey legends, surely.

Sid smoothly took over. “Dr. McLane is writing the report with all the details now, but I thought you'd want to know right away.” Phil privately thought that it could have waited for the report, but Sid had dragged him right to Le Magnifique's home. “What it boils down to is that apparently 50 years of frustrated fan magic has infected the Maple Leafs with malignant luck and their pet mages have found a way to attach the unluckiness to their players. Then, when they trade the players away, the bad luck goes with them.”

Mario stared at them.

“The bigger the player, the more unluckiness goes with them,” Sid added.

Now Mario was staring at Phil only. He tried not to fidget.

“Dr. McLane said that a regular curse would actually be easier to deal with. And she thinks that this sort of thing might not even be against the law OR the League rules, depending on if they infused Phil with all of the bad luck before or after they gave him to us.”

“Sorry!” Phil blurted out, then winced. “I didn't know.”

“Obviously,” Mario bit out. “I am going to fucking kill Brendan Shanahan.”

 

 

“ _ **Fifty percent of the game is mental and the other 50 percent is being mental. I've got that part down, no problem.** ” -St. Louis Blue Basil McRae._

 

 

Hockey magic was bound in and born from the power of winter, the spirits of ice and cold inextricably woven into the foundation of the game. Which made playing hockey in 26 degree weather (79 degrees Fahrenheit!) dubious, to say the least. Hockey was weird in Arizona. Everyone knew that the Coyotes had the worst home ice in the league, but the weirdness went beyond that. It was just hard to evoke the spirit of the game in a desert. The Florida teams had it rough, too, but they at least had a good number of Snowbirds to carry the spirit of the game into the Sun Belt. Arizona made do with a tiny bit of residual ice magic left over from Winnipeg (nobody knew what would happen when Doan finally retired... would the hint of Northern ice go with him?) and the extremely unsettling evocation of the Spirit of Hockey in the kachina logo.

“Anyone else here ever play them when they wore the Roboyote?” Duper grinned around the locker room. Phil liked the guy and it sucked he was on IR, but he could totally tell that the crazy Frenchie was about to start shit, probably to mess with the rookies.

“No, Dupuis, you're just super old!” Beau shouted.

“Actually,” Cullen said mildly, “yes, many times.”

The other old man on the team, Kuni, nodded. “Once or twice, yeah.”

“Ahh, but you two had the Great Power of DISNEY to protect you. All I had was a green and red wolfbearcat,” he paused dramatically and lowered his voice. “It was the eyes. That freaky kachina coyote following you around on every sweater. A hockey spirit winking at you every time you got close and heat every time you went in for a hit...” Letang muttered something about how Duper never hit so how would he know and Dupuis just raised his voice and ignored him. “The Spirit of the game married to the desert! And the kachina, it likes to go after the young ones. More tender and juicy, you know. You better watch out, my little hockey babies!”

“Sure, dad,” Olli said.

“Especially you, my delicate Finnish friend!” Duper ruffled the other man's hair and Olli made a face at him while the guys laughed. Phil knew Olli was still sad that his best friend got sent to Toronto for him, but Olli was a decent guy and knew it wasn't Phil's fault Kasperi was gone. It was nice to see him perking up and chirping back at Duper.

“I heard they were bringing the thing back,” Horny interjected. “It's going to be their third jersey this season.”

“Ugh, I hope not, that thing is terrifying,” the Reverend said as he taped up his socks.

Geno snorted. “Is just logo.”

“Naw, man,” Kuni said as he was tromping out to get on the ice for practice, “it's serious magic, not just a logo. Kachina are local spirits given form, but it's a hockey spirit, which is definitely not local, so the magic is a little messed up. No big deal, though,” he shrugged.

Phil sighed. His own messed up magic was weighing on him a bit. He generally couldn't do much with his innate magic, but the unlucky Maple Leafs hex clinging to him was a hint of rancidness underpinning everything he did on the ice. Under Mario's orders, only he and Sid on the team knew about the unluckiness. The management knew, but not the coaching staff. It made playing hard, like he couldn't quite connect with his teammates correctly. That tire fire of a game in Dallas to start their season had not helped, either. Staring the season shut out was NOT a good omen for them.

“Well, they're not wearing the kachina tonight, guys, so don't worry. Now everybody get out on the ice!” Sid chivvied the team to move faster. He had strong ideas about timing and routines.

Phil stood up and was a bit surprised to see Sid coming over to him. “What's up, Cap?”

Sid squinted at him. “I heard that John Scott will probably be a scratch, so don't worry about him.”

Phil started. Frankly, if he'd ever known that Scott was signed with the Yotes now, he'd forgotten – last he'd heard, the guy was a Shark. No one had mentioned Scott at video review. Oh god, he really hoped that Sid was right. Of all the things he had to be pissed off at Randy Carlyle about, lining him up against Scott two years ago was one of the biggest. He'd lost his head and been suspended and everyone in the league thought he was a pussy for the slashes, but he'd panicked. Phil knew what he was, and a fighter he was most emphatically not. He very much hadn't wanted to be destroyed by the Sabres goon in a preseason game. The guy had 8 inches and 50 pounds on him!

“He was just doing his job, you know.”

Phil looked over Sid's shoulder, not meeting his Captain's eyes. “Yeah, bud, I know.”

“Good, then let's go do ours.” Sid clapped him on the shoulder and they tramped out to the ice.

There really wasn't anything to worry about with Scott, Phil knew. He took a breath, reminded himself that he was a goal-scorer, an All-Star, and Scott really wasn't, and got to work. Coach wanted them to practice line rushes to try and build some chemistry before the game. Phil really wanted to score tonight. He focused on the practice and let the ice wash away all thoughts of kachinas and goons and bad luck magic.

 

 

“ _ **You can't keep on trading foot soldiers. Sooner or later, the general's got to go.** ” - Maple Leafs coach Pat Burns, after being fired by Toronto._

 

 

As the season rolled on into December, Phil had to wonder if his lone, unassisted goal in that second game of the season against Arizona had been an omen of things to come. He just wasn't clicking like he should be with the Penguins, particularly Crosby. Playing with Sid was this weird mix of soothing and aggravating. On Sid's line, he didn't have to be the playmaker, he didn't have to be the guy the other team always had to try to shut down. But... Well, he was used to being The Guy. He was used to calling the shots on his line. Not that Bozie had been a pushover, he'd just defaulted to the plays that Phil knew he could do. Sid pushed him, he carried the puck instead of Phil, and it grated on him.

It didn't help that Sid was obviously pretty upset about Duper announcing his retirement. That sucked for everyone, really.

It wasn't too bad, sliding to the second line. Geno wasn't even really a step down from playing with Sid, he was just that good. He was a bit slower, though, and Phil really had to watch his speed and his rhythm playing with Geno. It was a good line, but he was still having trouble scoring goals. Maybe it was Coach's system and emphasis on puck possession rather than passing, but Phil felt like the tempo of their play was off. It was making for an uneven season and a low points total so far, for everyone.

It also kinda pissed him off that the NHL fans had decided to vote John Scott into the All-Star Game. What even was up with that bullshit?

He couldn't help but wonder if the problem was partly Toronto's greasy leftovers, which were still clinging to him even after a few months of cleansing rituals. Dr. McLane said that the bad luck was slowly washing away, bit by bit, but sometimes... sometimes he caught a hint of the scent of it on his teammates, especially his linemates. He hadn't brought it up with her, and he was probably just imagining things, but... could his unlucky curse be spreading to the rest of the team? Phil wasn't usually the type of player to go in for checking the stats, but he'd looked up the team PDO and it was well under 100, which meant that the overall luck of the team was down. It couldn't be a coincidence that he was under an unluckiness curse and the stats showed that the team as a whole was having absolutely atrocious luck, right?

Phil slumped on his couch, listlessly changing channels on his TV while cuddling Stella – who was literally the cutest dog in the world, he didn't care what anyone else thought – but not really paying attention to it, too deep in his reverie to try to do something productive, especially after Quickie had denied him on the breakaway in OT last night they lost in the shootout. He was still sulking over that. He loved Quickie when they played for their country together, of course, but last night he'd hated him and the Kings a little bit for showing them up at their own barn. Even on the best teams, after a loss at their home arena, the disappointment of the fans could turn the team magic sour for awhile. It wasn't anything that a ritual bag skate of atonement couldn't wash away the next day, usually, but today was a rare Saturday off day for the team, which made the bitter mojo linger.

With a sigh, Phil flipped off the TV. His eyes drifted over to his modest shrine, tucked away behind a recliner in the corner of the living room. Maybe he should dust the thing off, dedicate some blood to the hockey spirits like a fan. Players generally paid the spirits in sweat and pain playing the game, with the occasional tooth or some blood from a slash thrown in, but, besides the constant lingering pain in his hand lately, Phil wasn't really the type of player to let himself get hit a lot. Maybe he should make a sacrifice, just in case the Hockey Gods felt he hadn't given enough to the sport.

Phil patted Stella, who was curled up for her afternoon nap, and stood up, holding a lower-truck flexor stretch for a few seconds to get out the kinks of sitting too long slumped on the couch. His place was silent now, except for the hum of the various plugged in electronics, the occasional grind-ker-plunk of the ice machine in the freezer notwithstanding. The silence should be conducive to the right state of mind for prayer, but usually any rituals he did happened at a rink, with the attendant background hubbub of hockey players shooting pucks or lifting weights, of trainers talking someone through an exercise or an injury, of coaches yelling distantly, of skates being sharpened and the rip-zip of tape being peeled, water gurgling through pipes in the walls, the clomp-clomp of players walking around with the skate-guards on...

His shrine was a simple side table in dark wood, with two drawers and a flat top. Phil grabbed a throw pillow off the couch, dropped it on the floor, and knelt. He could feel the routine of doing this take over. He may not often do this, but everybody in the world at some point or another had prayed at a personal shrine. Humans could give meaning and power to shapeless magic with anything from a dusty stone on the side of a road to a grandiose alter in a Rococo palace, it was the intent and ritual that mattered. In hockey, routines often took on the aspects of ritual – all the better for focusing magic.

The first part of the routine was cleaning the shrine. Out of the bottom drawer came a spray bottle and a small blue cloth, folded just so. He remembered his father teaching him how to clean the family shrine back in Wisconsin, the precise movements wiping away any negative energy. Next came a white cloth to drape over the top. Fruit Loops had top cloth shaped like a hockey rink, with the markings all embroidered in, and after seeing it that one time Phil couldn't help but imagine his own top cloth as a rink, too, all pristine white ice with the nets falling off either end of the shrine. Phil paused and thought a bit and then shrugged and got out the rest of accoutrements in the drawer. If he was going to do this, he might as well really do it right. A small bowl came out next, along with the novelty penguin candlestick Mandy'd gotten him after the trade, along with a simple white candle. Most of his friends and family used incense, but he couldn't stand the smell of the stuff – probably because of his meta – and used a candle instead. These he placed carefully on the top cloth just so before he took out the butane candle-lighter and lit it. A pinch from a jar of earth went into the bowl and he snagged one of the approximately 2,000 water bottles he had scattered around the house to pour a few drops into the bowl.

With the candle lit, earth and water in the bowl in front of it, the symbolism of elemental magic was appeased. Phil's mouth filled with saliva as he tasted the magic cooking around him and he swallowed. Now for the top drawer. He took few focus items and examined each one carefully before putting it back in the drawer: an old friendship bracelet the first boy he'd ever crushed on gave him, a lop-sided origami bird Blake had given him when they were children, his good-luck skate laces from his very first hat trick with the Bruins, the shaving brush his dad had used to teach him how to shave, a cufflink passed down in the family for generations, the shiny toonie Bozie had given him in “rent” – all the little treasures that people accumulated. Finally, he settled on one of the newest of his treasures, a nice ballpoint pen. He'd used it to sign his last contract, and on the paperwork with the Penguins organization. It had good resonance with the ritual he was thinking of.

The last things to come out of the top drawer was a fingerstick lancet, an alcohol swab, and a small piece of blotting paper. Phil focused on the pen as he stuck the side of his pinky finger, willing the hockey spirits accept his sacrifice, to help him rid himself of the unlucky Maple Leafs mojo which had been building since 1967. He blotted the blood and cast it into the bowl, eyes tracing over the pen, remembering signing his contract, the feeling of getting payed to play _hockey_. The magic kept building, smelling like freshly laid ice with an overlay of musty gear bags and half-thawed pucks. When the smell and taste seemed to fill his mouth, Phil picked up the candle and extinguished it in the bowl. The tension snapped, the magic dissipating. Hopefully, the Hockey Gods were appeased.

With a grunt, Phil stood up and started to clean up. It had felt good to make his little sacrifice, to ask the hockey spirits to help him out. He felt more relaxed, lighter and looser somehow, like the feeling of relief he got after taking a seriously fantastic dump.

Ping, his phone interrupted the silence. A few more chimes followed closely. Phil dried his hands and grabbed his phone, which had apparently woken Stella up because she started gamboling around his feet, begging for attention and treats. Phil just stared at his phone, shocked. Coach Johnston had been fired, it was telling him, and the Wilkes-Barre/Scranton coach was being called up to be the interim coach for his team.

“Well,” Phil said aloud, absently bending down to pet his dog, “what do you make of that, eh, Stella?” She just wagged her tail happily at him and leaned into this skriches. Dogs were good like that.

 

 

“ _ **Potential is synonymous with getting your ass kicked.** ” -Penguins coach Kevin Constantine after being asked if his team had potential._

 

 

Be it the coaching change, or the ritual he'd done, Phil was cautiously optimistic. He thought that the team was slowly trending upwards. Others, however, didn't seem to agree with him. It wasn't as bad as it had been in November, with the meeting after getting shut out after the Devils and Geno telling the media everyone was mad at each other, but there was still simmering frustration. Phil hoped that the new year would bring with it some new play out on the ice. Practice today had been a bit disjointed. It was so frustrating because they should be doing better! The team had the potential to be great, especially now that they had Daley, but they just weren't putting it together. The only guy who seemed to have it together was Flower.

“I know that I am beautiful, but it is too bad for you, I am a married man,” Flower shook his head sadly at Phil as they headed into the locker room and he realized that he'd been staring at the goalie.

“Just trying to figure out why Vero married you, man. Can't seem to make sense of it,” he chirped right back, their teammates laughing at them. This was good – maybe a few laughs would loosen everyone up, release some of that tension and frustration. Flower seemed to think so, too.

Flower clutched his chest like a swooning drama queen, hamming it up for the boys. “You wound me! My friend, I know you wish for the perfection that is my marriage. I see your longing. I will hug you now, but it must be enough for you!”

Phil flushed at Flower did just that, crushing him against his bulky goalie pads. “Ugh, get off me you smelly Frenchman! Sid! Captain! Come save me!”

Crosby honked a laugh and said, “Hey now, don't drag me into this!”

Flower giggled and somehow managed to pirouette in all of that equipment to face their Captain. “Sid, he is even worse than you, Phil,” Flower said over his shoulder while he stalked across the locker room to where their captain was half-undressed after their morning skate. “He has been pining for years.”

“What!” Sid squawked, while Flower leered down at him.

“Oh yes, we all know about your not-so-hidden lust for Geno. It is OK, let me comfort you,” he leaned down to rub his disgusting trapper in Sid's face while the Captain valiantly tried to fight the crazy goalie off. Phil was just glad it wasn't him anymore.

“Seems like Flower's been at the romance novels again,” Bonino said sagely to the Reverend and Kuni, referring to an incident earlier in the year when they'd all been trapped on the bus with Flower while he'd read aloud from one of his wife's romance novels.

“Worse, I think he's been reading fan fiction again,” Kuni said while rolling his eyes.

“You did say that Geno's skating was like dancing the other week,” Sunshine directed his comment at their Captain while nodding to Geno.

“Sorry, Sid,” Geno pulled a faux sad face. “I'm love Anna. But you best hockey player, best Captain.”

The Penguins were a weird group, Phil thought as he listened to half the team tease Sid and Geno in turn about their man-crushes on each other, while Kunitz and Lovejoy told Bonino about the Fan Fiction Incident of 2012.

The antics started to die down as everyone set to going about their game day routines. Phil got out of his gear, showered, and was dressing when Nick Bonino, who'd left already, came back into the locker room. He spotted Phil and came over.

“Can you give me a jump? I left my lights on. You're parked right next to me.”

“Sure, no problem, bud.”

He gathered up his stuff, shrugging into his jacket and cramming a beanie on his head and they headed out together. As they walked, Phil noticed that Bonino was shooting him these little contemplative looks like he was considering saying something. Bones was like that, always considering his words before shooting off.

“You going to need a ride back after your nap? If your car doesn't start or something?” he asked.

“Naw, I can just take Lauren's car if something like that happens.” There was a pause, and then Bones seemed to come to a decision. “It's OK, you know, what Flower was saying. It's OK to want someone to come home to... even if that someone is another guy.”

Phil felt like he'd been punched in the solar plexus. He swore his heart stopped and his breath got caught in a spiked dough-ball halfway up his trachea. Little black worms of panic crawled out from the edges of his eyes to the center of his vision and he swayed on his feet.

“Whoa, buddy, Phil, it's OK!” Bonino had his elbow, steadying Phil, which was probably for the best. If he broke himself falling over on the ice before the game, he'd never hear the end of it.

He probably couldn't bluff his way through this, even if that was his first impulse. He knew the No Homo code of jock behavior forwards and backwards, though, and that reaction was no the right one to fit with it, for sure. Phil managed a deep breath. “How'd'you figure?” he asked Bonino's shoes.

“Well,” Bones put an arm around Phil's shoulders and shook him gently, “you do kind of have a crush on Sid that can be seen from space, man.”

Phil looked up and glared. “ _Everyone_ has a crush on Sid!”

Bones quirked his mouth. “On his hockey, yeah. But not all of us trip over their own feet in the gym when Sid is doing squats, yeah?”

Phil flushed because, well, yeah, he had. Sid had been a guilty fantasy of his since they were kids. It wasn't really much of a thing and he'd mostly gotten over it, but the man was hot like burning and it occasionally hit Phil over the head with a hammer, especially when Sid was wearing worn thin workout clothes that strained across his thighs.

“Also, you were totally checking out Flower today,” Bones continued.

“Oh gross, no I wasn't!”

“OK, maybe not Flower, but Sid? You got the talk from the French Connection, right? I did when I joined the team last year. The team is good with it.”

In fact, Phil had. Duper had explained very earnestly at the beginning of the season that Sid, on very rare occasions, might pick up a guy, and that if Phil had a problem with that then he should just keep his mouth shut, while Tanger looked menacing in the background and Flower looked even more goalie crazy than usual.

Phil sighed and shrugged out from under Bonino's arm. “But Sid has a girlfriend. And, while there may be, I dunno, _potential_ for me to have someone, you know how weird things can go in the room when guys find out. Oh god,” he groaned and covered his face, “how many of the boys know?”

“Probably just me, man, you know how focused most guys are. Maybe Sid, but you guys have your fantasy football league thing going on so he know you best, Kes. And probably Tishy, he knows everything.”

“If one goalie knows, the others do, too, and Tish is buddies with the other WBS kids, oh god.”

“Hey, hey, Kes! If it hasn't been a problem so far, then it's not a problem, yeah? Do you need me to tell you that you're an awesome hockey player and an awesome dude more often? Did Toronto really hurt your self-esteem or something, because this isn't the arrogant asshole Phil the Thrill that I've come to know these last few months!”

Phil let out a startled chuckle at Bonino's hamming solicitude. “Whatever, dude, let's get your car going.”

“So, like, Lauren has this gay friend she went to school with...”

Phil groaned again.

“He's even your type, used to play hockey, too!”

“Oh god...”

 

 

“ _ **Man is that guy ripped. I mean, I've got the washboard stomach, too. It's just that mine has about two months of laundry on top of it.** ” -San Jose Shark Shawn Burr in reference to Eric Lindros._

 

 

In mid-January, Perron and Clendening were traded to the Ducks for Carl Hagelin. He was like a golden shimmer of light breaking through the omnipresent cloud of frustration in the locker room. He became fast friends with his fellow countryman Horny. Hags was fast, maybe even faster than Phil, skating circles around most of the team. He was an energy guy, not quite as much as Horny was, but you could feel the crackle in the air when he was around. He was funny and smart and always knew what to say to people. And he looked like a model, with crisp blue eyes and floppy blond hair and a strong jaw with an adorable smile.

Phil couldn't help but fall for him.

Phil hadn't felt like this since he'd found his best friend in Bozie. But unlike with Bozie, the straightest straight man to ever straight, with Hags there was, well, it felt like there COULD be something. Whenever he looked at the other man he could taste something like sweet eggnog in the back of this throat and there was a burning in his belly. The good kind. Bones said that their auras were always flaring around each other and wrapped up together. It felt good. It had been awhile since his personal magic, on or off the ice, felt good.

“We are SINGING today, man!” Hags laughed and threw himself into his stall, beaming at everyone while taking off his gloves and helmet. It was the second intermission of a home game against the Ducks – who hadn't been able to make Hagelin work for them earlier in the season – and they were up 4 to 2. Hags was still buzzing an hour later after his breakaway goal in the 1st, which Phil had assisted on. Sid was glowing, too, riding a seven-game goal streak. In fact, the whole team was riding high, the home arena magic and the energy of the team making the W seem inevitable. It was a sweet feeling, Phil knew, winning against your former team, and they were totally going to do it for Hags.

“Singing, eh?” Phil commented as he wiped down his face, taking off his jersey to try to cool down a bit.

“Yeah. Even that off-note in your kraft is drowned out today. It's been getting better, too. We are making some beautiful music!”

“Kraft?” he asked. He assumed that Hagelin's meta was sound, which was the second most common after sight, but he didn't know what kraft was.

“Your magic. It makes me want to get you in tune. Your song is very pretty, except that last little sour note. You should come over to mine after the game and let me sing it away,” he beamed at Phil.

That sounded like a proposition. Maybe? Phil wanted it to be one. Tomorrow was a rest day before they played Carl's OTHER former team in the New York Rangers on Wednesday. “Sure,” he managed to get out before the coaching staff came in and everyone cut the chatter to listen.

Coach Sullivan started his intermission talk, detailing what to look out for from the Ducks, reminding them about how Gabby liked to play his lines and of the set plays their video coach had told them about. Phil listened, of course, because he was a professional, but part of his attention was still fixed on Hags, who seemed to be humming a bit under his breath as he re-taped his socks.

Phil really, really hoped that he hadn't read the signs Hags was throwing off wrong, and he really hoped that the other man would be in a good mood once they won tonight. He wasn't exactly the most charming guy, and he knew that with his slightly thinning hair and bit of facial pudge he wasn't exactly the image of a handsome superstar athlete, not like Sid was, or fucking Tyler Seguin was, but he still thought he was something of a catch. Hopefully, Carl Hagelin thought he was, too.

 

 

“ _ **Great lines in hockey could turn the lights off and know where each other is.** ” -Phoenix Coyotes GM Mike Barnett, on Tony Amonte and Danny Briere._

 

 

Geno going down in late March could have spelled the end for them, but instead it was the spark that ignited the team. Bones slotted in between Phil and Carl as their center and it was like everything  _clicked_ into place on the ice. They were the HBK line and they were the hottest line in the league (Deadspin said so).

Phil felt giddy most of the time. He and Carl were trying things out, about half the team seemed to know about it and were fine with it, his Leafs-luck hex was gone from repeated applications of Carl's lips humming against his skin (which was fortuitous, since Melissa was now having to focus on Justin Schultz, acquired at the trade deadline from the Edmonton Oilers with a serious case of spiritual depression and shattered confidence from trying to play under the auspices of that cursed team), and they were WINNING.

Sometimes, Phil felt like all of it was too good to be true. From his cancer scare on the Bruins to being called a coach killer to the hell that was life under Randy Carlyle to the circling vultures of the Toronto media, Phil was used to things going wrong. Now that everything finally seemed to be going right he could scarcely believe it.

Maybe the Hockey Gods had given him their blessing back in December when he gave them some blood?

“You give blood to the spirits off the ice?” Carl asked.

They were laying in bed, Phil on his back and Carl half on top of him on his stomach. Carl was stroking his stomach and the Spring morning light was streaming in through the window, lighting a halo around him.

“Not usually,” he said. “It just seemed like everything was going wrong at that point in the season, and I thought that my hex was spreading to the team and causing everyone to whiff. I don't know, I just wanted to do something. And look, here we are.”

Carl raised himself up on one elbow to look at Phil's face incredulously. “You think I am here as a gift to you from the Hockey Gods?”

“That not what I meant!” He brought his hands around Carl's back, one on the smooth bare skin of his ass and the other pulling him down into a slow kiss. “Although,” he whispered as their lips brushed, “I _am_ pretty awesome, maybe they _did_ give you to me as a good luck charm.”

Carl shifted his hips so he was laying fully against Phil and started to rub their cocks together slowly. “So then, how am I doing as your lucky charm?” he asked while tweaking one of Phil's nipples. Phil groaned as his dick started to chub up. Carl was hard against him, undulating with the gentlest of grinds. It was the sweetest torture. Phil buried his face in Carl's neck, sucking on his collarbones. He put both hands on Carl's ass and pulled him down while he ground up hard. A smug little thrill when through him as Carl gasped and whimpered.

“You're doing OK so far, but we'll see how it goes in the playoffs, eh?”

“Fuck you, I've been to the playoffs more than you have!” They were grinding together harder now and Phil wanted to see him come.

“You want that, yeah? To fuck me? Think you could handle your dick in me, baby? Fuck me hard enough I could feel it for days.”

Carl whimpered again and brought his knees up. He leaned back, fisting his cock as he knelt over Phil, whose hands were full of Carl's ass while his dick ground against it. Carl fucked his fist and came across Phil's chest and belly, head thrown back with a long groan. Phil continued to grind up against him while Carl collapsed boneless on top of him, but it wasn't quite enough and he moaned at the sticky-slick feel of their bodies pressed together.

“Yeah, next time I'm going to fuck you, Phil,” Carl said, pushing himself down Phil's body. Carl pushed his knees up, one hand circling Phil's cock while the other pressed wetly against his hole.

“Fuck, yes,” he bit out as Carl's fingers pressed into him while he lipped and sucked at the head of Phil's cock. Phil petted Carl's silky hair as the other man sucked. “I'm, ah, going to come.” Carl leaned back to jerk him faster, sliding one wet finger deeper into Phil. He shuddered and grunted as he came, while Carl jerked him and watched his face. For some reason, the other man seemed to like watching Phil's stupid red O-face as he came. Carl claimed Phil was cute. Phil assumed Carl had taken a few too many elbows to the head, lucky for him.

Carl retrieved a cloth of some sort to wipe him down, since Phil had taken the brunt of it, then resumed his position in Phil's arms.

“I'm definitely lucky,” Carl murmured.

“Me, too.” That was about as far as they'd gotten in the feelings department. Maybe after the season was over he would ask Carl if they could do this as a defined “boyfriends” thing, although “teammates-that-fuck” was also pretty awesome. Everything was pretty awesome, actually. It really did feel like they could go all the way.

Phil promised himself that if they won the Cup, he'd tell Carl that he maybe sort of might kind of love him.

 

 

“ _ **Winning does solve everything.** ” -Colorado Avalanche forward Joe Sakic._

 

 

They won the Stanley Cup. Phil decided that he should probably pray to the Hockey Gods more often and sometimes he even considered thanking Shanahan for trading him, luck curse and all. He shouldn't tempt the spirits into interfering in his life, he knew, because people were already weaving him into a meme enchantment and that was some seriously unpredictable mojo, especially once the President of the United States added to it. He wanted to show his gratitude, though, for the Cup ring and for Carl and for the Penguins. He was obviously leading a charmed life.

 

 

**The End**

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my beta reader, Ohani, who knew nothing about hockey but consented to reading this anyway and who pointed out that using the word "magic" in every other sentence was probably a bit much.
> 
> Every story break is an absolutely real quote about hockey (thank you, Chris McDonell, for compiling the book "Shooting From the Lip: Hockey's Best Quotes and Quips").
> 
> Also, sorry for bashing the Maple Leafs and the Oilers.
> 
> And finally, should I annotate this? There are a lot of subtle and oblique references in the story that someone who is not as hockey mad as myself might not get, but sometimes annotations interfere with the story. Tell me what you think, please!


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